


Hard in Hightown || A Roaring Twenties DA:I AU

by delfiend



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Flappers, Gay Rights, Gen, Italian Mafia, Jazz Age, Mobsters, Multi, Prohibition, Roaring Twenties, Speakeasies, harlem renaissance, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfiend/pseuds/delfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Mafia families run 1920's Manhattan: the Lavellans, the Trevelyans, the Cadash's, the Adaars, and the Pavus'. Constantly at each other's throats over territory and bootlegging competition, the only thing the five families have in common is the code they all abide by: omerta, a code of conduct and secrecy that forbids cooperation with government authorities. When a member of a family falls prey to the law, they stay silent about anything and everything relating to their mafia lifestyle; that includes ratting out members of rival mafia families. Freddy Lavellan is the youngest son of mob boss Walter Lavellan. Freddy's job is to make deliveries of illegal alcohol to the Hightown speakeasy, an establishment owned and operated by long time friends of the Lavellan family: Varric Tethras, Cole Marchesi, and Solomon "Solas" Winters. Most nights, Freddy finds himself frequenting Hightown, getting his drinks on the house, listening to the soulful voice of upcoming artist Madame de Fer, and chatting the night away with the other regulars, such as the bold and beautiful Leliana Nightingale and the lovely Josephine Montilyet, daughter of the Montilyet mob boss of Chicago. All was well at Hightown... until a very unwelcome arrival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Glossary of 1920s Slang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an ever-expanding glossary of slang and terminology used in the 1920s, which will appear frequently throughout the story. 
> 
> The story itself begins in the next chapter.

A

**Ab-so-lute-ly** \- affirmative  
 **Absent treatment -** dancing with a timid partner  
 **Air tight-** very attractive  
 **Airedale -** an unattractive man  
 **Alarm clock**   **-** a chaperone  
**All Wet** \- describes an erroneous idea or individual, as in, "he's all wet."  
**And How!**  - I strongly agree!  
**Ankle -**  to walk  
**Applesauce** \- an expletive same as horsefeathers, As in "Ah applesauce!"  
**Attaboy** \- well done!; also Attagirl!

 

B

**Baby** \- sweetheart. Also denotes something of high value or respect.  
 **Baby grand** \- heavily built man  
 **Baby vamp** \- an attractive or popular female, student.   
**Balled Up** \- confused, messed up  
**Baloney** \- nonsense!  
 **Banana oil!** \-  I doubt that!   
**Bank's Closed** \- no kissing or making out - i.e. - "Sorry, Mac, the bank's closed."  
**Bearcat** \- a hot-blooded or fiery girl  
**Beat it** \- scam or get lost  
**Beat one's gums** \- idle chatter  
**Bee's Knees** \- An extraordinary person, thing, idea; the ultimate  
**Beef** \- a complaint or to complain  
**Beeswax** \- business, i.e. None of your beeswax."  
**Bell bottom** \- a sailor  
 **Bent** \- drunk   
**Berries** \- That which is attractive or pleasing; similar to bee's knees, As in "It's the berries."  
**Bible Belt** \- Area in the South and Midwest where Fundamentalism flourishes  
**Big Cheese** \- The most important or influential person; boss. Same as big shot  
**Big six** \- a strong man; from auto advertising, for the new and powerful; six cylinder engines  
 **Big timer** \- A charming and romantic man  
 **Billboard** \- a flashy man or woman  
**Bimbo** \- a tough guy  
**Bird** \- general term for a man or woman, sometimes meaning "odd," i.e. "What a funny old bird."  
**Blind Date** \- going out with someone you do not know  
 **Blooey** \-  the condition when one has gone to pieces   
**Bluenose** \- An excessively puritanical person, a prude, Creator of "the Blue Nozzle Curse."  
 **Blotto** \- drunk, especially to an extreme  
 **Blow** \- (1) a crazy party (2) to leave   
**Blue serge** \-  a sweetheart   
**Bootleg** \- illegal liquor  
**Breezer** \- an convertible car  
**Bronx Cheer** \- A loud spluttering noise, used to indicate disapproval. Same as raspberry  
**Bubs -**  a woman’s boobs  
 **Bug-eyed Betty** **-**  an unattractive girl, student  
**Bull** \- (1) a policeman or law-enforcement officer including FBI (2) nonsense (3) to chat idly, to exaggerate  
**Bull Session** \- Male talkfest, gossip, stories of sexual exploits  
**Bum's rush** \- ejection by force from an establishment  
**Bump Off** \- To murder, To kill  
 **Bunk -**  nonsense  
**“Bushwa!” -**  “Bullshit!”  
 **Bunny -** a term of endearment applied to the lost, confused, etc. Often coupled with "poor little."  
 **Bus -** any old or worn out car.   
**Butt me** \- I'll take a cigarette

 

C

**Cake-eater -**  in the 1920’s refers to a “ladies’ man”; later, slang for homosexual **  
Cancelled stamp -**  a shy, lonely female, the type one would describe as a “wallflower”  
**Caper** \- a criminal act or robbery  
**Carry a Torch** \- To have a crush on someone  
**Cash** \- a kiss  
**Cash or check?** \- Do you kiss now or later?  
 **Cast a kitten** \- to have a fit. Used in both humorous and serious situations. i.e. "Stop tickling me or I'll cast a kitten!" Also, "have kittens."  
**Cat's Meow** \- Something splendid or stylish; similar to bee's knees; The best or greatest, wonderful.  
**Cat's Pajamas** \- Same as cat's meow  
 **Charlie -** a man with a mustache   
**Chassis** \- the female body  
**Cheaters** \- Eyeglasses  
**Check** \- kiss me later  
 **Chewing gum** \- double-speak, or ambiguous talk  
 **Chin music** \- gossip  
**Choice bit of calico -** a desirable woman  
 **Chopper -** a Thompson Sub-Machine Gun, due to the damage its heavy .45 caliber rounds did to the human body  
 **Chunk of lead** **-** an unattractive female, student  
**Ciggy** \- cigarette  
**Clam** \- a dollar  
 **Coffin varnish -** bootleg liquor, often poisonous  
**Copacetic** \- Wonderful, fine, all right  
 **Crasher**  - a person who attends a party uninvited   
**Crush** \- An infatuation  
 **Cuddler** \- one who likes to make out

 

D

**Daddy** \- a young woman's boyfriend or lover, especially if he's rich  
 **Daddy-o** \- a term of address  
**Dame** \- a female  
**Dapper** \- a Flapper's dad  
**Darb** \- An excellent person or thing (as in "the Darb" - a person with money who can be relied on to pay the check)  
**Dead soldier** \- an empty bear bottle  
**Deb** \- an debutant  
 **Declaration of independence -** a divorce   
**Dewdropper -**  like lollygagger, a slacker who sits around all day and does nothing, often unemployed  
**Dick** \- a private investigator  
 **Dimbox** \- a taxi  
 **Dimbox jaunt** \- a taxi ride  
**Dogs** \- feet  
**Doll** \- an attractive woman  
**Dolled up** \- dressed up  
**Don't know from nothing** \- don't have any information  
**Don't take any wooden nickels** \- Don't do anything stupid  
 **Dope** \- drugs, esp. cocaine or opium  
**Doublecross** \- to cheat, stab in the back  
**Dough** \- money  
**Drugstore Cowboy** \- a guy that hangs around on a street corner trying to pick up girls  
**Dry up** \- shut up, get lost  
**Ducky** \- very good  
 **Dud up** \- to dress up   
**Dumb Dora** \- a stupid female

 

E

**Earful** \- enough  
**Edge** \- intoxication, a buzz. i.e. "I've got an edge."  
 **Edisoned** \- questioned   
**Egg** \- a person who lives the big life  
 **Embalmer** \- a bootlegger 

 

F

**Face stretcher -** an old woman trying to look young  
 **Fag** \- a cigarette **  
Fall Guy** \- Victim of a frame  
 **Father Time** \- any man over 30  
 **Fella** \- fellow. As common in its day as "man," "dude," or "guy" is today. "That John sure is a swell fella."   
**Fire extinguisher** \- a chaperone  
**Fish** -(1) a college freshman (2) a first timer in prison  
**Flat Tire** \- A dull witted, insipid, disappointing date. Same as pill, pickle, drag, rag, oilcan  
**Flivver** \- a Model T; after 1928, could mean any old broken down car  
**Flapper** \- A stylish, brash, hedonistic young woman with short skirts  & shorter hair  
 **Floorflusher** \- an insatiable dancer  
 **Flour lover** \- a girl with too much face powder  
**Four-flusher -**  someone who mooches off the money of others in order to feign wealth  
**Fly boy** \- a glamorous term for an aviator  
 **For crying out loud! -**  same usage as today   
**Frame** \- To give false evidence , to set up someone  
 **Fried** ****-**  **drunk 

 

G

**Gams** \- A woman's legs  
 **Gatecrasher** \- a person who attends a party uninvited  
**Gasper -**  cigarette, “fag” (also of the 1920s)  
 **Gay** \- happy or lively   
**Get a wiggle on** \- get a move on, get going  
 **Get in a lather** \- get worked up, angry  
 **Get-up** \- an outfit  
**Giggle Water** \- An intoxicating beverage; alcohol  
 **Gigolo** \- dancing partner  
 **Gimp** \- cripple; one who walks with a limp   
**Gin Mill** \- An establishment where hard liquor is sold; bar  
**Glad rags** \- "going out on the town" clothes  
**Gold Digger** \- A woman who associates with or marries a man for his wealth  
 **The goods** \- (1) the right material, or a person who has it (2) the facts, the truth, i.e. "Make sure the cops don't get the goods on you."  
 **Goof** \- (1) a stupid or bumbling person, (2) a boyfriend, flapper  
 **Goofy** \- in love  
**"Go chase yourself!” -**  “Get out of here!”  
 **Greenland -**  a park  
 **Grubber -**  one who borrows cigarettes  
 **Grummy -**  depressed   
**Grungy -**  envious 

 

H

**Hair of the Dog** \- a shot of alcohol  
**Half seas over -**  shitfaced  
**Handcuff** \- an engagement ring  
**Hard Boiled** \- a tough, strong guy  
 **Harp** \- an Irishman  
**Hayburner** \- (1) a gas guzzling car (2) a horse one loses money on  
 **Heavy sugar** \- a lot of money  
**Heebie-Jeebies** \- The jitters  
 **Heeler** \- a poor dancer  
 **Hen coup** \- a beauty parlor  
**High hat** \- To snub  
 **Hike** \- a walk  
 **Hip to the jive** \- cool, trendy   
**Hit on all sixes** \- to perform 100 per cent; as "hitting on all six cyclinders"  
 **Hokum** \- nonsense  
**Hooch** \- Bootleg liquor  
**Hood** \- hoodlum  
 **Hooey -** nonsense  
 **Hoof -** to walk  
**Hoofer** \- Dancer  
 **Hope chest** \- pack of cigarettes   
**Hopped up** \- under the influence of drugs   
**Hopper** \- a dancer  
 **Horn in** \- to get into a dance without an invitation   
**Horsefeathers** \- an expletive ; same usage as applesauce  
 **Hot dawg!** \- Great!; also: " **Hot socks!** " Rarely spelled as shown outside of flapper circles until popularized by 1940s comic strips  
 **Hot sketch** \- a card or cut-up  
**Hotsy-Totsy** \- attractive, pleasing to the eye

 

I

**"I have to go see a man about a dog." -** "I've got to leave now," often meaning to go buy whiskey **  
Icy mitt -** rejection from the object of one’s affection, as in: “He got the icy mitt.”  
 **Insured -** engaged  
**Iron** \- a motorcycle  
**Iron one’s shoelaces -**  to excuse oneself for the restroom  
 **Ish kabibble -** a retort meaning "I should care."  
 **It** \- Sex appeal

 

J

**Jack** \- money  
**Jake** \- OK, as in , "Everything is Jake."  
**Jalopy** \- Old car  
**Jane** \- any female  
**Java** \- coffee  
 **Jeepers creepers!** \- exclamation   
**Jerk soda** \- to dispense soda from a tap; thus, "soda jerk"  
**Jitney** \- a car employed as a private bus. Fare was usually five cents; also called a "nickel"  
**Joe** \- coffee  
 **Joe Brooks** \- a perfectly dressed person; student  
**John** \- a toilet  
**Joint** \- an establishment  
**Juice Joint** \- a speakeasy  
**Joint** \- A club, usually selling alcohol  
**Jorum of skee -** a swig of alcohol, particularly hard liquor

 

K

**Kale -** money **  
Keen** \- Attractive or appealing  
 **Killjoy** \-  a solemn person  
**Kisser** \- Mouth  
 **Kneeduster** \- skirt   
**Know your onions -** to know what’s up or what’s going on

 

L

**Lalapazaza -** a good sport **  
Lay off**  **-** cut the nonsense **  
Left holding the bag** \- (1) to be cheated out of one's fair share (2) to be blamed for something  
 **"Let George do it"** \- a work evading phrase  
**“Let’s blouse!” -**  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”  
**Level with me** \- be honest  
 **Limey** \- a British soldier or citizen, from World War I   
**Line** \- a false story, as in "to feed one a line."  
**Live wire** \- a lively person  
 **Lollygagger** \- an idle person   
**Lounge Lizard** \- a guy that is sexually active

 

M

**Mad money -** carfare home to be used by a flapper if she has a fight with her date **  
Manacle - w** edding ring  
**Mazuma -**  Dollar bills, cash, money  
 **Meringue** \- personality  
 **Mick** \- a derogatory term for Irishmen **  
Middle Aisle** \- To marry  
 **Milquetoast** \- a very timid person; from the comic book character Casper Milquetoast, a henpecked male  
 **Mind your potatoes** \- mind your own business  
**Mrs. Grundy** \- A priggish or extremely tight-laced person  
**Moll** \- A gangster's girl  
 **Mooch** \- to leave   
**Moonshine** \- homemade whiskey  
 **Mop** \- a handkerchief

 

N

**Neck** \- Kissing with passion  
 **Necker** \-  a girl who wraps her arms around her boyfriend's neck  
 **"Nerts!"** \- I am amazed!   
**Nifty** \- great, excellent  
**"Now you're on the trolley!"** \- Now you've got it, now you're right!  
**Nobody Home** \- Describes some one who is dumb  
**Noodle juice -**  tea  
 **"Not so good!"** **-**  I personally disapprove

 

O

**  
"Oh yeah!" -** I doubt it! **  
Oil burner - **a person who chews gum **  
Old boy - **a male term of address, used in conversation with other males. Denoted acceptance in a social environment. Also "old man" "old fruit." "How's everything old boy?" **  
****On a toot -** on a bender **  
On the lam** \- fleeing from police  
**On the level** \- legitimate, honest  
**On the up and up** \- on the level  
**Oliver Twist -** an extremely good dancer.  
**Orchid** \- an expensive item  
**Ossified** \- a drunk person  
**Owl** \- a person who's out late

 

P

**Palooka -** (1) a below-average or average boxer (2) a social outsider, from the comic strip character Joe Palooka  
 **Panic -** to produce a big reaction from one's audience  
**Panther piss -** whiskey, particularly homemade whiskey  
 **Panther sweat** **-** whiskey  
 **Peppy** ****-**** vigorous, energetic   
**Percolate** ****-**** (1) to boil over (2) As of 1925, to run smoothly; "perk"   
**Pet** \- Same as neck, but more so  
**Petting pantry -**  a cinema or movie theatre  
 **Petting party -**  one or more couples making out in a room or auto   
**“Phonus balonus!” -**  “That’s nonsense!” or “That’s horseshit!”  
 **Piffle -**  baloney   
**Piker** \- (1) a cheapskate (2) a coward  
**Pill** \- (1) a teacher (2) an unlikable person  
**Pinch** \- To arrest  
 **Pinko** \- liberal   
**Pipe down** \- stop talking  
 **Prom-trotter** \- a student who attends all school social functions   
**Pos-i-lute-ly** \- affirmative, also "pos-i-tive-ly"   
**Prune pit** \- anything that is old-fashioned   
**Pull a Daniel Boone -** to upchuck  
 **Punch the bag** **-**  small talk   
**Pushover** \- A person easily convinced or seduced  
**Putting on the Ritz** \- after the Ritz hotel in Paris; doing something in high style

 

Q

**Quilt -** an alcoholic beverage that keeps you warm

 

R

**Rag-a-muffin** \- a dirty or disheveled individual  
 **Rain pitchforks** \- a downpour  
**Razz** \- to make fun of  
**Real McCoy** \- The genuine article  
 **Regular** \- normal, typical, average; "Regular fella."  
 **"Rhatz!" -** How disappointing!   
**Ritzy** \- Elegant (from the hotel)  
 **Rock of Ages** \- a woman over the age of 30  
**Rub -** a dance party for college or high school students  
**Rubes** \- money or dollars  
**Reuben -**  a hick or redneck  
 **Rummy -**  a drunken bum

 

S

**Sap** \- a fool  
**Says you** \- a reaction of disbelief  
**Scram** \- Ask someone to leave immediately  
 **Scratch** \- money  
 **Screaming meemies** \- the shakes   
**Screw** \- get lost, get out, etc. Occasionally, in pre 1930 talkies (such as The Broadway Melody) screw is used to tell a character to leave  
 **Screwy** \- crazy; "You're screwy!"  
 **Sheba** \- A woman with sex appeal (from the move Queen of Sheba) or (e.g. Clara Bow)  
**Sheik** \- A man with sex appeal (from the Valentino movies)  
**Shiv** \- a knife  
 **Simolean** \- a dollar   
**Sinker** \- a doughnut  
 **Sitting pretty** \- in a prime position  
 **Skirt** \- an attractive female   
**Smarty** \- a cute flapper   
**Smudger** \- a close dancer   
**Smoke-eater** \- a smoker   
**Snake charmer** \- a woman involved in bootlegging  
 **"So's your old man"** \- a reply of irritation   
**Speakeasy** \- An illicit bar selling bootleg liquor  
**Spifflicated** \- Drunk. The same as canned, corked, tanked, primed, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, owled, embalmed, lit, potted, ossified or fried to the hat  
**Spiffy** \- An elegant appearance  
 **Spill** \- to talk   
**Spoon** \- to neck, or at least talk of love  
**Sockdollager -** an event or action of great importance  
 **Squirrel -** to hide   
**Static -** (1) empty talk (2) conflicting opinion  
 **Stilts -** legs   
**Streeted -** thrown out of a party   
**Struggle -** modern dance   
**Struggle Buggy** \- the backseat of a car. A parent's worst nightmare  
**Stuck On** \- Having a crush on  
 **Stutter bus** \-  a truck   
**Sugar daddy** \- older boyfriend who showers girlfriend with gifts   
**Swanky** \- Ritzy  
**Swell** \- Wonderful. Also: a rich man

 

T

**Take for a Ride** \- to take someone to a deserted location and murder them  
 **Tasty** \- appealing   
**Teenager** \- not a common term until 1930; before then, the term was "young adults"  
 **Ten cent box** \- a taxi cab  
**“Tell it to Sweeney!” -** what you say when you believe something to be untrue; “Tell it to someone who would buy that!”  
 **Tight -** attractive  
**Tin Pan Alley** \- the music industry in New York, located between 48th and 52nd street  
**Tomato** \- a female  
**Torpedo** \- A hired gun

 

U

**Unreal -** special **  
Upchuck** \- To vomit when one has drunk too much  
**Upstage -**  arrogant, snobby

 

V

**Vamp -** a seducer of men, an aggressive flirt  
 **Voot -** money

 

W

**Water-proof -** a face that doesn't require make-up  
 **Weasel** \- a young man who steals a girl from her boyfriend **  
Wet Blanket** \- a solemn person, a killjoy  
 **Wife** \- dorm roommate, student  
**What's eating you?** \- What's wrong  
**Whoopee** \- To have a good time  
 **Windsucker** \- a braggart  
 **"Woof! Woof!"** \- ridicule   
**Wurp -** wet blanket or person seen as a buzzkill

 

Y

**You slay me** \- that's funny

 

Z

**Zozzled -**  shitfaced

 

 

Sources:

http://local.aaca.org/bntc/slang/slang.htm  
http://thoughtcatalog.com/nico-lang/2013/09/59-quick-slang-phrases-from-the-1920s-we-should-start-using-again/  
http://www.huffenglish.com/gatsby/slang.html  
http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/Social%20Studies/PDF/Slang%20of%20the%201920s.pdf


	2. A Drunkard's Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 11 PM on 5/23, this chapter is edited and up-to-date! Hope you all like the first chapter! :) Feel free to give me your two cents when you're through, and any ideas you may have for what you think should happen!

Evening settled over the Manhattan side of New York City. The roar of engines in the streets grew to a crescendo as the working men left their jobs to return home. Many planned to toss aside their ties as they walked in the doors to their homes, eat dinner, read the paper, and head to bed. Still, many more planned to turn right back around and waste a night in the clubs and speakeasies besides the flappers and the useless youth. Most people partook in one of the two options, but the Lavellan family was not most people. The good people of Manhattan would only fill the clubs when the Lavellan's wanted them to. The family could just as easily drive every last person into their homes should they swing that way for the night. Everything from 23rd Street to 79th Street bowed to their will. The Lavellan family _ran_ this side of the city.

Freddy Lavellan was the youngest son of seven children that called the Lavellan family mob boss, Walter “Walt the Wolf” Lavellan, their father. As it were, being the youngest of the Lavellan boys was not an easy title to carry. For as ruthless as his father and big brothers were in the streets, Freddy had hardly shot a gun in his life, let alone at anything living and shooting back. Instead, Freddy spent much of his time with his twin sister Florence, playing cards or carrying her dresses while she shopped or listening to her go on and on about the boys and girls at her school. Freddy had learned to read under Florence’s instruction, being that Freddy and his brothers never went to school. Walt the Wolf said his boys needed to learn the ways of the world by being out in its streets, not from the dusty old pages of books. So Freddy did what he always did: he hung about the trucking warehouse the family owned by the East River harbor, watching twilight gather through the open garage doors while pretending to shoot invisible rivals; when all his imaginary rivals lay dead, Freddy would occupy his time by helping inducted family member Roy Richards fix up the trucks. Roy belonged to the family, so Roy's trucks belonged to the family; therefore, it was in Freddy's best interest to see them all running like new. And seeing that it was a Thursday, Freddy waited for his father and big brothers returned with their daily bounty, so that he could play his small but vital roll in the family's less-than-legal business. 

“Now you know the rules, Freddy,” Walt the Wolf said when he finally showed, all seriousness as he gripped his youngest between the boy's shoulder and neck, ensuring the Freddy's full attention. “Ya drive straight to Hightown, you unload the hooch, and you leave it for Tethras and Winters to take care of. Drive straight back. Don’t take any wooden nickels, ya hear?”

“You got it, boss,” Freddy smiled easily.

“And most of all: don’t let them flat foots catch ya.”

“Come on Pops, it’s me we’re talkin’ about! I’ve done this a hund’ed times without gettin’ caught, and I’ll do it a hund’ed times more with the same result! I’m the bee’s knees of bootleggin’!”

Walt the Wolf sighed, jostling Freddy affectionately. “You’re a hell of a dewdropper, Fred, but you ain’t wrong. Ain’t nobody run our drink as flawlessly as you.”

Freddy winked. “Anythin’ for you, boss.”

Walt the Wolf let slip a small smile. “Now scram, ya hooligan! If I catch word that our rot gut was late getting to Hightown—…”

“You won’t!” Freddy called as he dashed to his car, clapping his brother Dewey Lavellan on the back as the big burly guy loaded the last of the alcohol into the back of Freddy’s Model T. “See ya later, Pops!”

“Don’t get killed on me now, Fred,” Walt the Wolf sighed, more to himself than anyone.

The motor of the car sputtered a bit before roaring to life, and with the screech of tires, Freddy Lavellan left the warehouse and headed down the streets to the Hightown speakeasy.

"Ya know he's gonna stay at Hightown all night," Dewey remarked to his father as they both watched the car leave the warehouse and turn onto the road running parallel with the East River.

Walt the Wolf sighed, looking to his son who towered over him now, with the kid in his twenties and Walt the Wolf aging fast. "Whatdya except? He's young. Let'im play hooky while he still has the chance."

The route to Hightown—at least the route with the smallest police presence—was all but ingrained into Freddy’s memory. That being so, his hands moved the steering wheel from memory as his eyes wandered to the sidewalks, where the flappers flocked to the clubs among the young gentlemen. Freddy whistled loudly as he recognized a couple of the flappers, grinning impishly as they looked his way.

“Evenin’ to ya, dolls,” Freddy oozed charmingly, tipping an imaginary cap as he rolled to idle at a red light.

“Evenin’ Freddy,” one of the girls replied, her rolled eyes somehow making themselves known through her tone. “Will you be at Hightown tonight?”

“Oh, you know it!” Freddy laughed, startling a bit as the car behind him honked loudly; the light had turned green, but Freddy remained while the girls did the same, only letting his car roll forwards lazily to keep pace with the walking flappers. “I’ll see you gals there, won’t I?”

Most of the flappers were smothering their giggles over Freddy’s predicament, caught between the lovely ladies on the side of the road and the angry driver blaring his horn for the Lavellan boy from behind. The flapper who had spoken before managed to answer between giggles.

“You never know. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.”

“Until next time, then!” Another loud blast from the man behind and Freddy stomped on the gas pedal, speeding off down the road.

A couple twists and turns later found Freddy at the corner of Park Avenue and 23rd, at which he maneuvered his car through a narrow and uneven alley between two buildings to reach a rather large but inactive street that ran behind all the bustling building on Park Avenue.  He pulled to the curb and put his car in park, hopping out of the Model T and glancing around for cops as he knocked the back door to Hightown. His nose wrinkling at the stench wafting from the dumpster that sat overflowing beside the back door as he waited for someone to respond to his rapping. After a second, a piece of the door at eye level slide aside, revealing a pair of hazel eyes.

“Be out in a sec, Freddy,” said rough but friendly voice from the other side of the door; the slot slid shut and left Freddy on his own again.

“Take your time,” Freddy smiled, talking more to himself than anyone, but happy to chat all the same.

As the youngest Lavellan boy waited for the owners of Hightown to take his hooch, he began to unpack the illegal alcohol from the trunk of his car, stacking it beside the dumpster. He was halfway through emptying the trunk when he heard the sound of footsteps in the ever-silent back alley.

“Evenin’ to you, Mr. Lavellan,” came the stern and somewhat icy voice of a cop as she approached the illegal operation taking place.

She wasn’t just any cop. Freddy knew her well; to be more accurate, the Lavellan family knew her well. She was Cassandra Pentaghast, only female cop in all of New York, and member of the notorious Pentaghast crime family of Chicago; not that she would ever let on to that particularly career-limiting fact. Being that as it may, Cassandra was ruthless, taking out more mobsters in her day than most of her coworkers combined. But despite her skill at her job and her ultimate dedication to upholding the law, dedication to one’s job doesn’t pay the bills, and even Cassandra wasn’t opposed to being bribed to look the other way. More than any other cop, she understood the logic behind the crime families, recognized the good such people did for their communities; at least, when they weren't hell bent on murdering a rival family. At the moment with the Lavellan family, no one was getting hurt, so Cassandra didn’t feel bad in letting her favor be bought by them are their people.

“Evenin’, Ms. Pentaghast,” Freddy offered up a big winning smile. “Catch any criminals today?”

“Not very many,” she replied, standing casually with her arms crossed as she watched him unload his alcohol. Her outfit, as always, was cleaned to the T, and her raven-colored hair was kept even shorter than the flapper girls, practically hidden under her police cap.

“Ah,” Freddy grinned knowingly. “I suppose you’re pockets ’re all the heavier for it?”

She pulled a face, exhaling roughly in disgust at the blatant mention of her acceptance of bribery. As willing as she was to take the money, she didn’t like to be reminded of the fact that she was breaking the very law she vowed to uphold, that she _meant_ to uphold, in most circumstances. .

It was then that the backdoor to Hightown opened, and out walked two very unlikely business partners. Varric Tethras: a short man but stocky, eyes warm with an undeniable friendliness, long copper hair pulled back in a ponytail, nose broken so many times even Varric himself had lost count, ears pierces in a disorganized and downright roguish fashion, scruffy stubble always accompanied by an easy smile. And behind him, Solomon “Solas” Winters: tall, thin, but despite his unimpressive size incredibly strong, brow nestled over his eyes in something of a permanent scowl under which sat his cold blue eyes, as bald as the day was long, his face sharp and chiseled like something carved from stone in an Italian museum. Solas wore a nice suit with a bowtie, while Varric, on the other hand, had obviously lost his suit coat a while back, wearing just the dress shirt, slacks, and bowtie to match his business partner’s.

“Hey kid,” Varric smiled warmly, voice gravelly in a way that was utterly familiar to anyone; he turned his attention to the cop hanging about. “Cassandra. It’s so nice to see you.”

She pulled that face again, nose wrinkling and upper lip pulling away from her teeth in a snarl, making the same disgusted sound as she had done with Freddy. Varric only smiled more, used to the haughty reception by now.

“Suppose we ought to pay you for your troubles, havin’ watched over young Freddy and his hooch so diligently.” He nodded to Solas, who pulled a wad of bills from his back pocket.

“You _could_ do us a favor and forget to show up every now and again,” the taller man grumbled as he thumbed out a sizable bribe from his cache.

“Maybe one of these days I’ll _actually_ arrest the lot of you for your crimes. How’s that sound?” Cassandra glared menacingly as she took the bride and hid it away in a pocket.

“See ya next Thursday then, Ms. Pentaghast..?” Freddy inquired cheekily as the cop began to go on her way.

“You can count on it, Lavellan,” she shot back as she continued down the alley to the main street, probably to arrest some blokes or win more bride money in the process.

“This all the drink then, Freddy?” Varric asked, placing a hand on the stacked cases of hooch.

“Just a few more, Mr. Tethras!” Freddy answered cheerily, diving head-first back into the trunk of his car to fetch the last of the illegal alcohol as Solas took the liberty to haul what he could carry inside.

“Fantastic!” Varric smiled as Freddy sat the last few cases with the rest. “Mind helpin’ us get this lot inside?”

“Not at all, Mr. Tethras!” Freddy panted with a grin, his father's specific instructions _not_ to do just that long forgotten, already loading up his arms.

With the three of them working to transport the alcohol inside, the task hardly took five minutes. Once it was done, Varric and Solas worked to pour all the alcohol into their kegs and barrels while Freddy took up his usual spot at the bar, watching the busboy Cole Marchesi, the same age as Freddy, clean off the many tables of the establishment in preparation for the upcoming flood of customers. Cole was a very quiet boy, long pale hair unkempt and always in his eyes, bright blue eyes peering out from behind the curtain of blonde, skin always as pale as a man about to lose his liquor, small and a bit gangly in stature but not entirely unlikeable. In fact, Freddy found he liked the quiet kid quite a lot.

“How’s business been, Cole?” Freddy called to the busboy as the latter worked.

“Fine, I believe,” He said in his breathy whisper of a voice, which carried across the large, empty room. “Lots of people. Old faces. New faces, too.”

“Any cute dolls?” Freddy asked with a boyish grin.

“Lots of girls,” Cole answered, head down as he polished a particularly stubborn spot on a table. “All the same. Short dresses. Shorter hair. Always drinking. Always smoking. Always laughing. Sometimes dancing. But they’re nice girls. I like nice girls.”

“Me too, buddy,” Freddy answered as he scanned over the establishment, which had grown to be something of the second home to the boy who didn't quite fit in at his first home to begin with.

There was a sizeable stage, where all the upcoming singers and artists had been at least once in their careers, around which the many tables for guests gathered so as to led a great view to those on stage. The bar now sat open to the rest of the club, but Freddy knew that with the flick of a lever, an entire brick wall could rise from the floor to hide the bar from sight, effectively evading discovery by the police. Not that the secret passcode at the door didn't deter them, anyways.

“Anything I can get for ya, Freddy?” Varric called as he returned from the back-most room where the liquor was stored before and after hours, taking his place as bartender and polishing down his beloved bar top.

“A hair of the dog to get me goin’, I s’pose,” Freddy turned around on his barstool to face the roguish man. “Don’t wanna end up spifflicated before I get the chance to sweet talk the ladies.”

Varric grinned as he whipped out two shot glasses and filled them to the brim with the bottle he had brought from the back; by now, the older man knew the young Lvellan's Thursday ritual by heart. “Now _that_ would be an absolute tragedy.”

Freddy snorted as he eyed up the glasses. “Thought you liked tragedies, Mr. Tethras.”

“You got it all wrong, Freddy. I like to _write_ about tragedies. Don’t mean I like when tragedy strikes my friends.”

"Gotta let me read one of yer books when ya finally finish." Freddy raised his fist shot glass. “Here’s to livin’ tragedy-free lives.”

Varric raised the other glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

They both downed their liquor like champs.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

South of 23rd Street, stretching all the way to Governors Island, was the part of Manhattan that found itself under the command of the Trevelyan family. The Trevelyan’s were proud people, proud of their country, proud of their city, proud of their accomplishments in less-than-legal activities. But the Trevelyan pride was often wounded by the Lavellan family, who, sharing a border with the Trevelyan’s, often found reason to bicker and fight and bloody the streets with the blood of both families. Once, the Trevelyan family had presided over everything south of 34th Street, until the Lavellan’s drove them back south of 23rd. The Trevelyan family never forgot what they had lost to the Lavellan’s. And they never forgave.

Times had become tough for the Trevelyan family as of late. Edward “Smiley Ed” Trevelyan, mob boss and loving father of the Trevelyan’s, had grown weak with cancer. His leadership had always seen the Trevelyan’s rich and respected, and his presence at home had always seen his children well-loved and happy. But despite the fond reputation Smiley Ed commanded, misfortune always seemed to find the poor man durring the happiest of times. He had lost his wife, his beloved Rose, shortly after the birth of his daughter Daisy, who despite the odds managed to survive without the warmth and care of a mother. Close to eight years later, Smiley Ed married once more, wedding a kind but somber woman by the name of Dolores, who brightened the man’s life with the birth of five new children, all born in quick succession. It was right after the birth of the youngest, Louis, whom the family called Baby Lou, that Smiley Ed began to feel drained. The tiredness quickly became exhaustion, and exhaustion became weakness. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that his weakness would soon escalate and become dying and from there see the poor man to his grave. The Trevelyan children refused to believe their father, their strong and beloved father, would ever bite the dust, or at least any time soon. All except Michael, the eldest of the children, and the new mob boss in his father’s stead. For Michael, his father’s approaching death was very real, as real as the weight of responsibilities that sat heavy of the young man’s shoulders. During his father’s time, there had been a tense but undisturbed peace with the Lavellan family. But Michael’s brothers and sisters alike were rowdy, ambitious, and proud; they would see their family feared once more even at the expense of peace.

Daisy, youngest child of the late Rose Trevelyan at eighteen years of age, wasn’t quite sure how she thought her family should proceed with their rivals, the Lavellan’s. Admittedly, she didn’t give the dilemma much thought, as a girl her age had much more important matters on her mind. One such matter was walking down the street towards the park where Daisy had taken her quintet of younger half-siblings to burn off some energy before they had to be put to bed, the sun having already disappeared across the horizen.

“Hello, Ms. Trevelyan.”

“And hello to you, Mr. Rutherford.”

Cullen Rutherford, the second eldest of the four Rutherford children, had known the Trevelyan family for the better part of his life. After the death of Cullen’s father, Smiley Ed sympathized greatly with the Rutherford widow, his own Rose Trevelyan having died just a little while before. The mob boss provided above and beyond for the Rutherford family, letting the Rutherford children into his home as often as they pleased, even going so far as to feed them at his table and sleep them in his beds should they desire. But despite the hospitality of Smiley Ed, Cullen was taught by his father to always associate “Trevelyan” with “trouble”. It was perplexing for the young boy to experience the kindness of the Trevelyan family and think of them as trouble, but for the sake of his late father, Cullen managed to do so. The food on his table made him think ‘trouble’. The Trevelyan boys playing kick the can with Cullen and his friends made him think ‘trouble’. A Trevelyan girl among other girls, giggling and whispering away as girls do, made him think ‘trouble’. And despite years of growing close with the Trevelyan children and surviving off their generosity, Cullen couldn’t possibly think of them any different. The Trevelyan’s were trouble. Even the lovely and spontaneous Daisy.

“You never said if ya were gonna join me tonight, Mr. Rutherford,” Daisy pouted visibly from her perch on the park bench, elbow propped up on the bench back as she gazed up at Cullen who stood by and didn't dare sit.

“I’m afraid ya never told me the venue we would be frequentin’,” Cullen replied.

“Does it really matter _where_ we’re goin'?” Daisy huffed exasperatedly.

“Well yeah,” Cullen defended a bit weakly. “If it’s one of them speakeasies…”

“And if it is, whatdya gonna do?” Daisy challenged with a bold grin, making her eyes wide in mock innocence. “Arrest me?”

“Daisy…” Cullen cast his eyes down to his old shoes. “It’s my _job_ …”

“No, your job is to be a borin’ old, sinker-stuffin’, pryin’, dick _extraordinaire_!” Daisy turned herself back around to face forwards, arms crossed over her chest, lower lip jutting out in defiance.

Cullen heaved a sigh, sitting himself on the bench beside her, attempting at least four times to respond to her accusations but only managing to be stutter-free and coherent on the last try.

“Jus’ ‘cause I’m a detective now doesn’t mean I’ve changed. I’m the same-ol’ same-ol’, I promise…”

“Prove it,” Daisy leered at him. “Come out with me tonight, don’t give so many damns about where we end up or what we end up doin’.”

“What? Just me an’ you..?” Cullen couldn’t keep the surprise and rising excitement from his voice.

“Well,” Daisy smiled a bit lopsidedly, her eyes focusing on something past Cullen. “Not stric’ly speakin’…”

“Hey Daisy Doll,” said a young man of about twenty-two, chestnut hair a carefully fabulous mess and saunter screaming mobster far sooner than the pistol tucked visibly in the back of his waist, lighting a cigarette as he grinned around it. “Jus’ ‘bout ready to hit the town?”

Cullen knew the young man very well, as he was Francis Trevelyan, second eldest of the Trevelyan children. And if anyone deserved Cullen’s label of ‘trouble’, it was, without a doubt, Francis.

“Ready when you are, ace,” Daisy smiled as her brother whipped out a cigarette and popped it in her mouth, lighting it for her.

“The hoodlums with ya?” Francis asked as he puffed on his cigarette.

“Yeah, they’re off bein’ a bunch of devils.”

Francis removed his smoke from his teeth and held it between two fingers as he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Trevelyan’s! You lot ‘re on your own! When ya mooch you head straight home, ya hear?”

“Aw, applesauce!” Dorothy, the second eldest of the quintet of youngsters, pouted from a distance, voice carrying in the rather still evening air. “Paulie promised us we’d head to the old candy shop after the park! We saved up all our pennies to buy some ciggies!”

“It’s gettin’ dark, Dot,” Francis replied, putting his hands on his hips to mirror his sassy little sister. “If ya gonna go to the candy shop, you hoods better go now.”

Immediately, Dot turned on her heel and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Paulie! Grace! Ellie! Baby Lou! If you rag-a-muffins don’t get yerselves over here, yer gonna get the bum’s rush from me! We gotta ankle to the candy shop ‘fore it’s dark!”

“Pipe down, Dottie, would ya? We’re comin’!” Eleanor’s bossy voice was hear from near across the park.

“Catch you kids later then!” Francis grinned. “Me an’ Daisy are goin’ out for the night.”

Daisy piped up. “Cullen’s comin’ too, Francis.”

“That right?” Francis gnawed on his cigarette as he eyed the detective, who was a little under a year his younger. “Well alright then. But first we gotta pinch the car from Mikey and the Cuckoo bird.”

“They’ve been drivin’ the ol’ hayburner all day like a couple of eggs,” Daisy rolled her eyes, taking one last drag off her cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it with her shoe. “Shall we?”

The two Trevelyan’s and Cullen headed down the sidewalk, leaving Tompkins Square Park, passing by the Gas House district on 10th Street as they made their way to the where 14th Street met the East River harbor, at which the eldest Trevelyan child, Micheal, was sure to be overseeing imports of illegal liquor. As they walked—Francis in the lead, while Daisy and Cullen hung back a bit—Cullen spoke up, keeping his voice somewhat low just for Daisy's ears.

“Who’s the Cuckoo bird..?” He asked curiously.

“Ya know, my brother Emmit?”

Cullen frowned a bit. “You mean the third eldest Trevelyan?”

“Well, _technically_ he’s not. Good ol’ Ma adopted him when he was just a boy at one of them orphan showin's held at the local church. Francis never got over the fact that Em ain’t one of us by blood.”

“But… what’s with the nickname?”

“Francis says cuckoo birds lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, and them other birds just sorta adopt eggs an’ think it’s their own. When it hatches, the cuckoo baby eats the poor birds outta house an’ home. Francis thinks that pretty much sums up with Emmit’s doin’, but he’s wrong. Em works harder than all us Trevelyan’s combined to see the family name honored and respected.”

Francis cut into Daisy and Cullen’s conversation as he dropped back a bit, smoking a new cigarette. “So tell me, Dick Rutherford, what’s the word ‘round town ‘bout the other mob families?”

“The station’s been crackin’ down hard on the Cadash family,” Cullen answered. “Haven’t confirmed anythin’ yet, but I think one of their own is talkin’. They’ve busted about four of their haunts so far. The Cadash’s will be out of places to hide soon.”

“Yeah? What about our friendly neighbors, the Lavellan’s?”

“No one’s been able to pin them for so much as havin’ their shoes untied. Word around the station is that cops in Lavellan territory tend to end up a whole let richer than the cops in other parts of Manhattan.”

Daisy cut in. “Ooo, tell us about the Pavus and Adaar rivalry. Either family massacre the other yet?”

“To hell with the Pavus family and the Adaar family!” Francis growled. “I don’t give a damn ‘bout anythin’ but spilling every last drop of cowardly Lavellan blood!”

“Oh give it a rest, Francis!” Daisy rolled her eyes. “We’re supposed to have _fun_ tonight! How we s’posed to do that if you keep bickerin’ ‘bout the Lavellan’s?”

Daisy piped back in in the silence that followed. “Come on! Where we gonna go tonight? The gin mill on Delancy? Oh! How ‘bout Fraunces? The place on Wall Street?”

“Sure, but afterwards, I've gotta real gem of a place that'll end the night with a bang!” Francis winked as they approached the harbor, easily finding their brothers Michael and Emmit amid the dying hustle and bustle as the workday came to a final close.

Cullen had always admired Michael Trevelyan. Whether it was now at twenty-three, or back in the day when Cullen met him as only a six year old boy, Michael—Mikey—Trevelyan gave off an air of maturity with his somber visage and carefully combed-over and slicked-back hair the color of a rich mahogany, and piercing green eyes that somehow seemed sad even when he used to smile. That mature air was backed up by his actions, which always stemmed from the young man’s deep-seated integrity and honesty. And wherever there was Michael, there was sure to be Emmit. With his curly butterscotch hair—similar to Cullen's—and the palest eyes always round with wonder and innocence, the adopted member of the Trevelyan family stood out like a sore thumb among his siblings and their varying shades of dark or reddish hair. But while Francis may have held a grudge against the foreign boy, Michael had found in Emmit his best friend. To find the two apart was like finding a needle in a haystack while blindfolded and lost in a field of needle-free haystacks. Cullen couldn’t help but smile to himself as he recalled one of Daisy’s witty remarks on the subject: _“I swear the two of ‘em sleep in the same bed an’ suck on each other’s thumbs!”_

Michael spotted his siblings and Cullen approaching, and quickly wrapped up his final business with the boatman that smuggled in the Trevelyan liquor. While Michael stepped aside to meet Daisy and Francis and Cullen, Emmit remained to pay the boatman handsomely for his trouble.

“Daisy, you’re lookin’ lovely today,” Michael smiled, kissing his sister atop her rosy red head, then nodding to his younger brother, only a year older than Francis, before being quickly distracted. “Francis. And Cullen, always great to see you, pal. How’s your family?”

“They’re well, thanks fer askin’.” Cullen smiled.

“Heard ‘bout the new gig. Guess it’s _Detective_ Rutherford now. Hope we won’t have to be greasin’ yer palms just to chat anymore.” Michael let slip a smile at his own joke.

“No sir,” Cullen assured with a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck out of nervous habit.

“Sir, is it?” Michael teased. “What happen to Hard Boiled Mikey? Isn’t that what the kids used to call me back in the day?”

“Yeah,” Cullen nodded. “But you’re a mob boss now. Kids’ll be callin’ ya sir nowadays.”

“Miss those days…” Michael sighed, before a though occurred to him. “Say, you heard them coppers beatin’ their gums? What’s the word up north of here? What’re the Lavellan’s and Cadash’s and Pavus’ and Adaar’s usin’ to refer to me?”

Cullen stuttered a bit. “C-Couple of ‘em ben callin’ you Babyface... Ya know, ‘cause yer the youngest boss in town…”

Francis turned visibly angry. “Babyface? They should be callin’ you Mad Dog Mikey, o-o-or sumthin’!! Mikey, you gotta make these clowns _fear_ yous! Don’t tell me yer gonna roll over!”

“Go butt yerself, Francis,” Michael huffed in mild annoyance. “Ya get on my nerves when ya ain’t smokin’.”

Still furious but smart enough not to get on his brother’s bad side, Francis took a few paces away from their chatter and lit himself a new cigarette. Daisy saw her opportunity and cut in.

“Hey Mikey, we need the car to go out tonight. Mind if we take it off yer hands?”

“Anythin' for you, Daisy,” Michael flashed a smile before calling out. “Hey Emmit! Mind drivin’ the car ‘round to here for Francis and Daisy?”

“Sure thing, Mikey!” Emmit called back cheerily, saying his farewells to the boatman and jogging off towards the warehouse where he and Michael had parked the car.

“Whatever ya do,” Michael said seriously to Daisy, his somber expression amplifying the effects of his tone. “Don’t go stirrin’ up any trouble ya can’t put out on yer own.”

“Come on Mikey!” Daisy grinned, punching his brother’s chest teasingly. “When have _I_ ever gotten into trouble?”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Consisting of everything that fell east of Lexington Avenue while north of 125th Street and stretching all the way north to Marble Hill was the portion of Manhattan that fell to the Pavus family. Having been in Manhattan longer than any other family—or so they claim—the Pavus’ had seen their fair share of bloodshed, of prosperity, and now, of hardship. So it was that a several generations-long rivalry between the Pavus family and their neighbors south of 125th—the Adaar family—which had been oscillating between times of great violence and times of a simple glares and spitting at one another, was rising once again to a crescendo of bloodshed. In the past two decades, mob boss and head of the family, Halward “Ritzy” Pavus, had not only lost his two brothers and his young nephew, but also his wife. All that was left to the Pavus name beside rapidly-aging Ritzy was his son Dorian Pavus. And much to Ritzy’s blind fury and frustrated dismay, Dorian was not the least bit interest in his family legacy or becoming mob boss, or much of anything the family prided themselves in, for that matter. And while Dorian refused to inherit the mob boss title, many inducted into the Pavus family set their eyes on it, most Ritzy did not wish to see the title go to. The most zealous of these vultures was none other than George Alexius, always a loyal member of the mob family but always out of synch with Ritzy’s ambitions for the family.

It was George Alexius’ son, Felix, who found Dorian that Thursday evening, as the young man had—to no one's surprise—gone missing earlier in the day. It was almost always Felix that found the young man when he wandered off, for Felix was more or less the only person Dorian ever spoke to, consider a friend, despite a five year age gap between them. Today, Dorian was sulking on a bench facing Broadway, just watching the people pass by on the glamorous and lively street. When Felix found him, he simply pulled his car off to the side of the road and joined Dorian on the bench. It was close to a half an hour after Felix joined him before the only Pavus heir spoke up.

“It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair..?” Felix asked in that quiet, calming voice of his.

Dorian nodded to a crowd gathered outside of a theatre. “That they get to live the glamorous life of a movie star and I don’t.”

Felix couldn’t help but smile. “If it makes ya feel better, most of us don’t.”

“But most of you _could_ ,” Dorian sulked. “You could at least give it a shot. Me? No, I’m _Mr. Dorain Pavus, heir to the Pavus mob_! Heaven forbid I go anywhere outside of Manhattan and want to do anything other than run our family.”

He looked to Felix with a desperation. “I want to go to Hollywood, Felix! I want to wine and dine with the movie stars, I want to shop where they shop, drink where they drink, smoke what they smoke, I want to live it all!”

It wasn’t the first time Dorian dreamed of becoming a movie star, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. His unquenchable dream was fueled by the connections he made with those he found wandering Broadway, and furthermore by his friends in Harlem. Once, he had tried to audition for a play in the theatre, but the connections of the Pavus family ran deep throughout the northen portion of Manhattan like the roots of weed; Ritzy found out through the grapevine, and quickly stomped out his son's ambitions. However, his father’s determination to see his dream crushed made Dorian all the more determined to see such things through. And so the Pavus family crisis continued.

“Why don’t we just head back?” Felix offered to his friend, softly but his urgency clear.

Dorian looked to Felix, frowning, not having missed the subtleties of his tone. “What’s the matter?”

“We’re awfully close to 125th,” Felix said with a nervous glance to the south. “And it’s gettin’ late. Last thing we need right now is a run in with some Adaar’s. They’ve been bumpin’ us Pavus’ off like flies…”

“Relax Felix,” Dorian smiled, always a charming expression on the charismatic’s youthful face. “We won’t be here for long.”

Felix didn’t even have time to ask when a car honked obnoxiously from just down the road, prompting Dorian to stand from his bench and approach the street edge. The car sputtered over and pulled to the curb. The back door opened, revealing a beautiful young woman dressed to the T in feathers and jewelry that complimented her dark skin to no end.

“Dorian darling,” she said, not the least bit patient. “If you stand there much longer, we’re going to be late.”

“You don’t mind if my pal Felix tags along, do you Madame de Fer?”

The lady in question, Madame de Fer, looked to Felix with a scrutinizing eye. “I suppose. But be quick about it!”

Dorian turned to his friend, now standing but still hanging around the bench. “Come on, Felix!”

Obediently, the young man joined his friend and climbed into the car as Madame de Fer slide to the far side of the back seat. Felix shut the door behind him and the car sped off, heading south, much to Felix's unease.

“Where, exactly, are we headed..?” Felix asked timidly.

“Oh don’t worry Felix,” Dorian assured with a pat to his friend’s shoulder. “We’re not stopping in Adaar territory. We’re headed to Lavellan territory. A speakeasy, to be exact.”

“Dorian, you _do_ know we ain’t friendly with the Lavellan’s either, right..?”

Dorian snorted. “Of course I know! You think old Ritzy would let me forget? But, for the time being, no Lavellan’s have bumped off any Pavus’. So all things considered, I think we’ll be fine one night out south of 79th. Madame de Fer here has a singing gig at… where was it again, my dear?”

“Hightown,” Madame de Fer answered. “And I’ve told you at least a hundred times, Dorian darling, call me Vivienne. Madame de Fer just sings on a stage.”

“She’ll be singing on a _huge_ stage soon!” Dorian beamed, turning to Felix. “She’s got the voice of an angel that smokes three packs a day and washes it down with a vintage wine. Simply divine to hear!”

“You flatter me, Dorian.” Vivienne smiled a bit.

“Well, I _am_ a flatterer,” Dorian smirked with a wiggle of his eyebrows, promptly causing an eye roll from Felix, who muttered to himself:

“Maybe we’ll find you a proper girl in Lavellan territory,” Felix huffed. “God knows that would make Ritzy happy, to see you with a proper, eligible doll…”

By the time they reached the Hightown speakeasy, the night was already picking up. Dorian walked up to the door with Vivienne in the lead, trailed by Felix. She knocked on the door.

“Hello? I was wondering if you had any oil for my hayburner? It’s a real McCoy.”

Like that, the door opened, and on the other side stood the small frame of Cole Marchesi.

“Madame de Fer, come in,” He stepped aside.

“These two are with me,” Vivienne motioned to Dorian and Felix as she entered the joint.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll see to it they're properly takin’ care of.”

“Thank you, Cole darling. I’ll be backstage. Let me know when I’m on in five.”

Vivienne slipped easily past the people that crowded the tables, filling the room from wall to wall and flooding the ceiling with cigarette smoke and laughter. Cole motioned to Dorian and Felix, navigating with just as much ease as he headed back to the bar. Dorian and Felix struggled to keep up, much less accustoms to the twists and turns it took to get anywhere in Hightown.

“Mr. Tethras, sir,” Cole spoke to the bartender. “There two are with Madame de Fer.”

“Then they can have their drinks on the house!” Varric smiled as he cleaned a glass. “Thank you Cole. Go ahead and take a break, kid. Grab Anthony from the back, tell ‘em he’s got the door.”

The pale blonde nodded, slipping like a ghost back behind the bar to the secret back room.

Varric turned his attention to his two new customers as he fixed them drinks. “Haven’t seen you two ‘round here before. Where ya from?”

“Harlem,” Felix answered carefully.

Dorian stuck out his hand across the bar. “Dorian Pavus, Mr. Tethras. Pleasure.”

Varric shook his hand, letting slip a cheeky grin. “Pavus, huh? No relation to the crime family Pavus, is there?”

Dorian laughed a bit to himself. “If only that were the case.”

Varric noticed how suddenly tense Felix had become, and laughed easily. “No worries, friend. We get all sorts here at Hightown. So long as you ain’t here when we’ve got Adaar’s hangin’ about, Pavus’ are always welcome.”

“And there… _aren’t_ any Adaar’s here tonight… right..?” Felix took a big gulp of his drink nervously the moment Varric set it in front of him.

“Nah, we haven’t seen any Adaar’s in months. Word on the street is they opened up a new speakeasy on their side of town. Real popular joint, funny name: The Qun, I believe it is.”

“Well it’s good to hear they’ll be spending their nights drinking instead of massacring my friends and family,” Dorian chuckled haughtily. “I’ll drink to that!”

Dorian and Felix drank for what seemed like hours, caught up in the magical atmosphere of cigarette smoke, jazzy musicians, and giggling flappers. Dorian was really starting to feel the swoon of his drinks when two ladies strode over to the bar beside him, decked out in gorgeous headdresses and colorful dresses.

“Two more for us, Mr. Tethras,” one of the ladies with bobbed ginger hair called to the bartender. “Freddy say’s they’re on him!”

“Yeah? Well Freddy’s gonna see me out of business before the night’s out with as many drinks he's givin' out! I oughta bill the kid once and a while.”

“Oh don’t be a wet rag, Mr. Tethras,” the second girl, with darker skin like Dorian’s and shiny ebony hair done up in a wondrously intricate bun, said in a voice that carried a tinge of a foreign accent Dorian couldn’t quite place. “Freddy’s a good kid!”

“And you, Ms. Josephine, can afford to buy your own drinks. Same goes for you, Ms. Leliana.” Varric wagged a stern finger at the girls as he took out two glasses, the three of them melting into smiles, as the mock seriousness was hard to maintain under the influence.

Varric made the drinks without complaint, sliding them across the bar to the two ladies. He knew from experience that no matter how many drinks they mooched from the house, Josephine was sure to leave a more than generous tip in her wake to ensure the speakeasy would still be kicking next time she came to visit from her home in Chicago, where her family made fortunes of their own illegal alcohol trade and a variety of businesses.

The two girls had just disappeared from Dorian’s sight when the sudden sound of gasps and chairs flying back as people jumped to their feet roused Dorian from whatever stupor he was in. He turned in his seat to look towards the door, spotting three people who didn’t seem out of the ordinary to him, but no doubt were unwelcome based on the reactions of those who spotted them.

“Hey now, don’t stop your whoopee on my account,” Francis sneered, words a little slurred and broad stance a little wobbly. “We’re just here ta have a good time, same as yous.”

Someone stood up abruptly from the far end of the bar, only catching Dorian’s attention when they spoke up.

“Scram, Trevelyan’s. You know just as well as anyone of us that you ain’t welcome this side of 23rd.”

“Is that Freddy Lavellan I spy?” Francis squinted, a malicious grin spreading onto his smug features. “It _is_ Freddy, correct? Or are you more known as Fraidy-Cat Freddy?”

Freddy tensed visibly, not quite his laid-back self with all the liquor in his belly, though the seventeen-year-old had to presence of mind to make no move for the gun tucked in the back of his pants. Not yet at least. His father didn’t want him out, let alone starting a war with their rivals over a little late-night line-crossing.

“There’s plenty of joints for you south of 23rd. There’s no reason for you to be here.” Freddy waited for his words to sink in, but they clearly had no effect on Francis, who continued to gaze out over the establishment as if he owned it; Freddy added, voice trembling just noticeably: “No one here wants any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Francis pinned the younger Lavellan boy with an intense gaze, his obnoxious disregard for rules only heightened by the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the night. “The only _trouble_ here is the fact that _you_ seem to think this side of 23 rd belongs to you no-go Lavellan’s.”

“Francis,” Daisy pleaded in a fervent whisper from her brother’s side, pulling on his arm to get him out the door even as Cullen restrained her from doing so, knowing Francis may very well turn on her any second. “Francis please… just come on…”

She, too, was slowed by the alcohol she had consumed, but even so she could sense a fight to break out, and despite her foggy head knew that all she wanted was to keep that from happening. But Francis had run his mouth too much to back out now, continuing with escalating arrogance. 

“The Trevelyan’s used to claim everything up to 34th ‘fore you _Lavellan’s_ cheated us back to 23 rd! An’ you can bet your sorry asses that we’ll have everything up to 60th Street before I’m in the ground! That’s a promise, Lavellan!!”

Daisy caught her brother's hand motion too late. Francis whipped out the pistol from his waistband, but the sound of a gunshot rang violently through the joint before the second eldest Trevelyan had time to aim, startling everyone in Hightown. The red bloomed bright in stark constant to Francis’ white shirt, and the black powder burns marked the guilty hands of Freddy Lavellen, rooted to the spot in shock much like everyone else.

Francis looked to the blood soaking through his shirt, then in a moment of utter drunk confusion and anger, turned his eyes to Freddy.

“Why you little—…”

For Francis, everything went black before he had time to finish one last insult. His body hit the ground with a loud, dull _thump!_ , leaving in its wake everyone as still and silent as the grave.

 


End file.
